“My students are, as usual, clamoring for me to cancel classes,” b’Estorr said. “As are a few of the other masters. As if closing the shutters and going to bed with your head under a pillow for a week will help. It doesn’t.”

Rathe did his best to repress a grin–the thought of the elegant Chadroni cowering in his rooms was almost too good to bear. “It’ll be over soon,” he said. That was true enough; the lunar conjunctions were never long‑lived, and the ghost‑tide had only a few more days to run. Less than the current climate of foolishness, he thought, and b’Estorr nodded as though the other man had spoken aloud.

“This madness won’t, though.” The necromancer’s voice was unwontedly grim.

Rathe nodded in commiseration, just as the door at the far end of the room opened abruptly, admitting two of the Tour’s ushers, elegant in forest‑green livery. One held the doors open while his senior slammed his heavy staff on the floor, drawing all eyes. He struck again, unnecessarily, and Rathe’s eyes were drawn in spite of himself to the royal emblem that topped it. It was identical to the one that capped his own truncheon, his badge of office, and he ran his thumb over the worn metal. He was part of the royal household, in a sense, just as the ushers were.

“Masters all,” the usher announced. “Rainart Fourie, Surintendant of Points.”

Fourie swept in before the words were quite out of his mouth, lifting a hand in acknowledgment of courtesies already begun. He was dressed in his usual narrow black, unrelieved except for the flawless linen at neck and cuffs, and as usual he had forgone the wig that would look so foolish on his long and melancholy face. A clerk scuttled at his heels, tablets ready, and a young woman in a judicial gown followed him, eyes downcast, her hands folded in her sleeves. Behind her, another liveried usher held a brass orrery at the ready.

“Masters all,” Fourie began, and the silence seemed to deepen as each one of them came to attention. “We’re faced with an unusual situation. A midwinter masque that promises to become a popular hit.”

That broke the silence, a ripple of laughter running around the room, but Fourie continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Based on a work that seems to catch the popular imagination on a fairly regular basis. Combine the play with last year’s rumor of an authentic Alphabet, and we have the possibility for massive fraud and more in the marketplaces. That is why I want the university to consult with us on this, and possibly in particular the college of necromancy. There are, by what is admittedly a rough count of a fluid situation, thirty‑five licensed printers in the city. Licensed. There is an unofficial count of another forty or fifty unlicensed printers working at any one time. And all of them, my masters, will be printing copies of the Alphabet of Desire.”

Rathe rolled his eyes to the painted ceiling, wondering why Fourie was telling them something they all already knew. A painted gargoyle peered back at him through a painted hole in the roof, its expression as disapproving as Fourie’s, and he dragged his attention back to the lecture.

“They will be printing copies of the Alphabet because the people of this city will want, already want, to buy it, and this play will only feed that hunger.” Fourie’s long mouth drew down in a frown that rivaled the gargoyle’s. “Many will want it as a curiosity, because it’s the must‑have of this particular season, and their copies will gather dust and be sent for kindling in a twelve‑month. Some, however, will buy it because of what they believe it can do, the knowledge it can impart.”

Rathe pulled himself up a little straighter at that. Of course, that was why Fourie wanted the university there, and the necromancers in particular. The Alphabet of Desire was just that, a book of formulae arranged in the order of the letters, formulae for flower arrangements designed to give the maker the desire of her heart, from true love to lust, to money, to power, to death. There was no way to tell, to certify, that the arrangements in any given edition would work at all, or work the way they were supposed to, without trying each one, and it would take a university‑trained magist to make the assay without causing more harm, unless the necromancers could read the possibility of power the way they read the possibility of ghosts. But it was interesting to see that there were no university phytomancers present. He glanced sideways at b’Estorr, made a note to ask him about that.

“The timing,” Fourie continued, “is unfortunate. May I remind you all that Her Majesty has promised to name her true successor after the turn of the year?”

As if we hadn’t been hearing that for the last three years, Rathe thought, looking up at the gargoyle again. Although this time, it seemed to be true: with the Starchange approaching, the Starsmith moving from one sign to the next in its ponderously slow transit of its zodiac, the queen was finally running out of time to delay. The change of sign always signaled upheaval, or so the old text claimed; for the health of the kingdom, the queen would have to name her successor before that transit began.

“I am not one to doubt the wisdom of the regents,” Fourie went on, and there was another ripple of suppressed laughter. The surintendant had a deserved reputation for quarreling with the regents, usually in defense of his own people. “But Her Majesty’s decision has brought many of the potential candidates to Astreiant at a time when the madness for the Alphabet has sprung back to life, and we cannot ignore the conjunction.” He paused, his eyes skimming over the audience. “On top of that, I’m concerned about keeping the peace in the marketplaces, especially those districts with large markets. There were some squabbles last spring over the corms–”

“Squabbles,” a pointswoman standing in front of Rathe said, under her breath. She leaned close to a colleague, shoving up her faded sleeve to display a long white scar. “That’s what one of those ‘squabbles’ got me, a knife in the arm.”

“–but I’m afraid those will be as nothing compared to what we’re likely to see now. We’re in an unfortunate sign right now.” Fourie paused, beckoned to the usher and the young woman in the judicial gown. “As you well know. The ghost‑tide keeps us busy enough, but we also have to contend with a figure that seems to enhance the inherent foolishness of people.”

“He’s a loving soul,” b’Estorr murmured, and Rathe stifled a laugh.

“Believes the best of people, Fourie does.”

“And there’s your explanation for The Drowned Island,” the necromancer went on, closing his eyes as the younger astrologer made final, minute adjustments to the orrery.

“A question, Surintendant.” The voice came from the front of the group, where the chief of Temple Point and the chancellor of the university sat side by side in matching chairs. That was a little daring of Fourie, Rathe thought. Under no other circumstances would even the most senior of the chiefs rank equal to the university’s head. It was Temple Point who had spoken, her voice even and cultured, and for an instant Rathe wished Trijn had been forced to attend. Only the chiefs were expected to speak at these gatherings. “Do we have any chance of calling a point on the factors, if there’s trouble, or are we left to deal with the petty dealers?”

Fourie’s severe face relaxed into something like a smile. “The advocacy has been consulted on that, Chief Point. They hold that the factors are within their rights to take whatever the market will bear, and so the smaller dealers may–and will–do likewise.”

“If they make claims outside the ordinary,” Temple Point went on, “may we call it fraud?”

“If you think you and yours can make the point,” Fourie said, “by all means.”

Rathe laughed at that, knowing the sound was rueful, heard the same note echoing in the room. It was unlikely any of them could get such a point upheld, given the nature of the corms and the nature of the book, but at least the surintendant had given a qualified sort of approval.